When first this idea was suggested to her, Juliette was exultant. Her
entire nature, which in itself was wholesome, light-hearted, the very
reverse of morbid, rebelled against this unnatural task placed upon
her young shoulders. It was only religion--the strange, warped
religion of that extraordinary age--which kept her to it, which
forbade her breaking lightly that most unnatural oath.

The Archbishop was a man of many duties, many engagements. He agreed
to give this strange "cas de conscience" his most earnest attention.
He would make no promises. But Mademoiselle de Marny was rich: a
munificent donation to the poor of Paris, or to some cause dear to the
Holy Father himself, might perhaps be more acceptable to God than the
fulfilment of a compulsory vow.

Juliette, within the convent walls, was waiting patiently for the
Archbishop's decision at the very moment, when the greatest upheaval
the world has ever known was beginning to shake the very foundations
of France.

The Archbishop had other things now to think about than isolated cases
of conscience. He forgot all about Juliette, probably. He was busy
consoling a monarch for the loss of his throne, and preparing himself
and his royal patron for the scaffold.

The Convent of the Ursulines was scattered during the Terror.
Everyone remembers the Thermidor massacres, and the thirty-four nuns,
all daughters of ancient families of France, who went so cheerfully to
the scaffold.